Boy, Everywhere, page 14
“This is Hassan and Iman, our children,” Aunty Fatimah said, looking down at the floor. Iman glanced at Sara on Mama’s lap and smiled, then got up and left the room.
“Would you like some tea?” Aunty Fatimah asked in English. Weird. Why wasn’t she looking at us? Did everyone in England behave like this? And why were her kids at home on a Sunday? Shouldn’t they be at school?
Iman returned and handed Sara a brown teddy bear with a red-checked bowtie. Sara grabbed it and hugged it tight without saying a word.
Mama smiled. “Thank you so much, Iman. That’s very kind of you.”
Baba nodded. “In fact, this is all very kind of you. May God reward you for your help. God willing, we won’t be here too long. My immigration officer has already sent off my certificates to be verified. As soon as they’re back, I’ll be able to apply for work and get a place to live.”
I sat squashed at the end of the sofa with my hands over my knees. I didn’t know what to do in this strange house. It didn’t feel like we were with family friends at all.
“Hassan, why don’t you show Sami the bathroom and their bedroom?” said Uncle Muhammad, who then turned to me. “Put your jacket away—maybe play a game or two on the PlayStation?”
“I’ve packed that away,” Hassan snapped. “Had to make space, didn’t I?” He stood up and stopped at the door, staring at me for a second before walking out of the room. I guessed that meant I was supposed to follow him.
The upstairs landing was even smaller than the hallway downstairs, with four doors leading off it.
“That’s the bathroom,” Hassan said, pushing open the first door on the left as we walked past it. He pointed at the room next to the bathroom. “That’s my mum and dad’s room—don’t go in there.” He pointed to the furthest door on the right. “And stay out of that one too.” He looked at me sideways then stepped through the third door on the landing. “This is my room, but you lot have got it. You better not mess it up.”
Inside, there was a double bed in the middle and a single mattress on the floor underneath the window.
“Don’t you dare touch my stuff.” He walked back out of the room, knocking his shoulder against mine and making me jerk back.
I stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to do or think. I sat on the edge of the double bed. There were two Manchester United posters on the wall opposite. Maybe we’d be able to talk about football, like I’d done with Aadam. But Hassan was clearly annoyed he’d had to give up his room. He wasn’t even pretending to hide it. I could tell we weren’t going to be friends.
I walked to the window and stood on the mattress to look out. The sky was low and gray. In Damascus it had always felt so high above us. It was a quiet street, lined with many houses—all identical, with one side attached to the house next to it, and the other side to a garage. Everyone had one or two cars parked in their neat, pretty driveways. Some of the cars were still lightly dusted with frost. All of the houses were whole—nothing had been shelled. A plane flew over the rooftops in the distance, pretty low. The airport couldn’t have been too far away.
I looked around the room and opened the double wardrobe. Inside were a lot of sweaters and jeans—Hassan’s clothes. The red of a Manchester United kit jumped out at me. I rubbed the top between my fingers. If it had been Joseph’s, I’d have borrowed it. But Hassan would probably go mad if I did that. Then again, I supposed I would’ve been the same, if some random family turned up at my house and took over my bedroom. Although that would never have happened in Damascus, because we had a guest bedroom. Here, every room was already being used.
I walked out of the room and into the bathroom. It had a shower, a separate bathtub, a toilet, and a sink. I took my jacket off, draped it over the banister in the hallway, and went back into the bathroom, dropping my jeans and sitting on the toilet seat.
When I’d finished, I looked around. All I could see to wash with was a plastic measuring jug, like the one Mama had in our kitchen. In Syria and Turkey, there was a water pipe in every toilet. It seemed a bit strange that the UK didn’t have those yet. I’d thought the detention center only had toilet paper and nothing to wash with because it was a prison and they wanted to punish us by leaving us dirty.
I reached over to the sink, filled the jug with water and washed myself. I tried to see out to the yard but the window was made of frosted glass.
As I left the bathroom, I bumped into a stony-faced Aunty Fatimah on the landing.
“Don’t leave your things lying around. Put your jacket in the bedroom. Hassan’s cleared the hooks on the door especially. Then come down to eat.” She didn’t look at me once, her eyes focused on the stairs—as if I was too disgusting to look at.
* * *
Everyone except Hassan was sitting in the small back room—the dining room. The dining table was covered with a white plastic tablecloth, and white plates were set out on red rubber placemats. The walls were covered in extreme flowery peach wallpaper that made my head hurt.
At the end of the table, Uncle Muhammad and Baba were engaged in deep conversation about the war in Syria. Beside Baba sat Mama and then Sara, hugging her new teddy for dear life. I pulled out the chair next to her and asked, “What you gonna call it?”
She looked at me and hugged it even tighter.
“Come on, let’s think of a name.”
She leaned into Mama, away from me. I sat back in my chair. She still didn’t want to talk. Even now that we were all together in England, finally safe. I assumed she’d be okay here. Maybe she just couldn’t talk anymore. What if she’s lost her ability to talk forever and it’s all my fault? I thought, hating what I’d done to her.
Aunty Fatimah and Iman came in, carrying dishes full of rice, tabbouleh, kibbeh, baba ghanoush, pita bread, and spinach pastries. The smell of onions, parsley, and ground beef mixed with the smell of cinnamon and cloves wafted up my nose, just like at home. I wondered if I was actually drooling as I pushed my hands under the table to stop myself from grabbing a golden flaky pastry.
As we ate, Baba and Uncle Muhammad were the only ones who talked. Aunty Fatimah sat next to Uncle Muhammad, not looking up once. I noticed Iman glance at me a couple of times, but that was it. I ate the kibbeh and pies with my hands, while she, like Aunty Fatimah, used a fork. Maybe she thought we were uncivilized. I didn’t care; I wanted to enjoy my first proper hot meal in months. I wanted to feel and touch every part of it with my fingers and my mouth and remember the meals we used to eat together at home.
After we’d all finished, Mama handed Sara to Baba and helped Aunty Fatimah clear the table. She asked me to go to the front room. I didn’t want to go alone, but I felt like a spare part as it was. At least I could stare at the TV.
I walked into the front room, stiffening when I saw Hassan sitting in the same position as before, watching a show called Coronation Street. I sat down on the sofa quietly. The people in the show spoke with an unusual English accent. They sounded like some of the guards in the detention center.
I glanced over at Hassan. His eyes were fixed on the TV, his face set in a scowl. Ask him, I told myself. You’ve got nothing to lose. I bit my lip, took a breath and said, “Hassan—do you have a computer or a laptop?”
“Yeah, why? You want to take that as well d’you?” He didn’t tear his eyes from the TV.
“I just wanted to use it to email someone.” I had to tell Aadam and Joseph that I was safe. I’d forgotten my letters to Joseph in the detention center—we’d left in such a rush. And I wanted to find out where Aadam was and if he was okay. I had to keep my promise to him. Had he even left Turkey yet?
Now Hassan finally turned to me and glared, raising his eyebrows. “What? You know how to use email?!”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I scrunched my face so hard, I almost saw my eyebrows.
He didn’t reply, just turned away and continued to watch the show, his forehead furrowed. He seemed so angry. I should’ve just asked his dad, but there never seemed a chance to speak to him. At least he was welcoming and warm—nothing like his son.
The sooner we get out of here the better, I thought to myself, laying my head back on the sofa.
Chapter 24
That night, Uncle Muhammad took us to the mosque for the evening prayer. As we entered the large tiled reception area, he stopped every few seconds to shake hands with people, while Hassan walked off ahead of us.
“I’m a mosque trustee. That’s why they all know me,” Uncle Muhammad explained to Baba, putting his shoes in the wooden pigeonhole unit. “I’ll introduce you to the other doctors here.”
The main prayer hall had a domed roof with Quranic Arabic painted around it and a massive chandelier hanging from its center. The rhythmic call to prayer echoed around the building, making me stop and absorb every word. I stood on the green geometrically patterned carpet and took a satisfied breath. A sense of peace settled in my stomach—the first time in months. I felt as if God was welcoming me.
I hadn’t expected such a big mosque in England; I thought there would only be huge churches and tiny mosques. But then I remembered the many big, beautiful churches in Syria. When Joseph stayed over at weekends, we’d drop him at his church while we prayed at our mosque next door. What will be left of them all now? I wondered.
After the prayer, as we climbed back into the car, Baba looked at me and smiled. “You okay, Sami? We’ll call Tete as soon as we get back. It’s two hours ahead, so Tete should definitely be home if she’s been out.”
There would be a lot of tears. I knew it. I wasn’t looking forward to speaking to her because she wouldn’t be able to speak for crying. But she was my only link to Syria, and maybe she’d know if Joseph was okay. Maybe we could give Uncle Muhammad’s number to Tete to pass on to him. That would be perfect, I thought as we flitted past rows of red-brick houses, standing firm under the streetlights.
“I’ll be at work from tomorrow, Tarek, but please feel welcome and treat the house like your own,” Uncle Muhammad said to Baba.
Uhh, like that’s going to be possible with Hassan and Aunty Fatimah around, I thought. Had he even noticed how rude they were?
“And don’t forget to pop into my friend Siddique’s factory around eleven o’clock. I’ve spoken to him—he’s expecting you.”
“Oh, good. Shukran,” Baba smiled.
A factory? Why would Baba be going to a factory?
“Sami, we also need to get you enrolled into secondary school,” Uncle Muhammad continued. “What year are you in?”
“Uh, I-I-I’m in grade eight,” I stuttered, stunned by the idea of going to school so soon. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to one in England at all. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to live here.
“What is that? Like year nine here?”
“He is thirteen, akhi,” said Baba.
“That’s year eight then,” said Hassan, rolling his eyes.
“Ah, so you are only one year younger than my Hassan. Well, I’m not sure if you will get into his school, but we will certainly try.” He held my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Then Hassan can look out for you.”
If Uncle Muhammad hadn’t still been looking at me, I would’ve pulled a face. Hassan didn’t seem like the kind of kid who would look out for anyone, let alone me.
When we got back to the house, Uncle Muhammad handed a slim, black cordless phone to Baba. “Take it upstairs and call your mama. Give her my salaams and tell her I’m happy to be helping. We’ll sort out a SIM card for your mobile tomorrow, to get it working. I’ll ask Hassan to look at some deals tonight.… Oh! And”—he rummaged around in his tweed blazer pockets—“here’s the card for that psychologist my friend used for his son—she’s the best. Ask the doctor to do an urgent referral to her waiting list when you go to register at the practice.”
“Thank you, akhi. Bless you.”
I went up to our bedroom while Baba continued talking to Uncle Muhammad. Mama was sitting on a prayer mat, wearing a brown scarf I hadn’t seen before. Aunty Fatimah must have given it to her. The next thing I noticed was that the mattress on the floor now had a pink Cinderella duvet and pillow.
“Is that for Sara? Where am I sleeping?” I asked Mama.
“No, that’s your bed. Sara will sleep with us in this one,” she said, pointing to the double bed, where Sara was asleep between the two pillows.
Great. I thought. If it wasn’t humiliating enough to have to take Hassan’s room, now I have to sleep in his sister’s bedding.
I took off my jacket and hung it on the door hook.
“Go and have a shower. There’s a towel for you on the bed.”
I grabbed it and started walking to the door.
“Take those pajamas with you too. Fatimah kindly gave you Hassan’s old ones.”
I felt my face burn. I didn’t want to wear that nasty vomit’s hand-me-downs. I wanted to chuck them in the garbage. But of course I had no choice. I couldn’t complain. I had to take everything given to me gratefully.
I remembered packing my old clothes in a garbage bag for Baba to drop to a charity for poor children in Darayya. I was fine with someone else wearing my clothes, but now I was that someone else and that stung my insides.
Standing in Hassan’s room and having to wear his things seemed like the biggest insult so far. Was it just me who was struggling? Mama and Baba were grateful and seemed a lot happier than they had been since we left Syria; even Sara was smiling again. Living in England just wasn’t what I had expected it to be. We had no space and still had no lives of our own.
I clutched Hassan’s old pajamas and the gray towel and went into the bathroom.
I stayed in the hot shower long after I needed to. There, I could imagine I was in my own shower at home. The steam transported me to Syria as water trickled down my head and over my face. Finally, I felt clean. I closed my eyes and imagined I was showering to get ready to go to the mall with Joseph.
A loud banging broke my thoughts.
Flustered, I turned the shower off and listened. Someone pounded on the door again.
“Sami, get out!” Hassan yelled. “I need to use the bathroom!”
My skin went clammy; the water trickling down my body felt cold. I climbed out and grabbed the towel.
“Give me a minute, please,” I said, quickly rubbing myself dry.
“HURRY UP!” he shouted furiously.
I got dressed, grabbed my dirty clothes, and opened the door. Hassan stood right outside it.
“You’re such an idiot,” he said, pushing past me into the bathroom.
“I was taking a shower,” I said, looking back at him as I walked out. I never liked fighting but right then, I wished I could thump him and walk out of his stupid house.
Baba was on the bed, the phone to his ear. His eyes were red and full of tears. Mama looked as if she’d been crying too. She sat up in bed next to Sara, who was still asleep, her mouth wide.
“Ah, Sami, come. You need to speak to Tete. She was asking for you,” whispered Mama. She ushered me to sit on the bed near her feet. I dumped my dirty clothes on the floor and sat down.
Baba finished his conversation and handed the phone to me. I put it slowly to my ear.
“As-salaamu alaikum, Tete—” I began but all I could hear was crying and sniffling and fast words that I couldn’t quite make out.
“There’s no point living now, habibi.… I miss you.… I have nothing left. I am all alone,” she cried.
“Tete, we’ll see you soon, don’t cry—please.” Her words made me feel hollow.
“I’ll see you in heaven now, habibi. Heaven is our next meeting place …” She started sobbing loudly but then it was abruptly replaced with a long buzz on the line.
“Tete? Tete? Hello? Tete?” I took the phone from my ear, looked at it and then pressed it to my ear again. I sighed. She must’ve cut it off accidentally. I handed the phone to Baba, wishing we’d brought Tete with us. She was alone in Syria now, with no one to look after her. If she died, no one would find her for days. We wouldn’t even be at her funeral. I wish I’d told her that I loved her before we left. If only I could go back home. I should be there for her. I don’t belong here anyway.
Chapter 25
The next morning I’d been awake for about an hour. Everyone had gone downstairs, but I hadn’t gotten out of bed because I couldn’t face Aunty Fatimah and Hassan—when Hassan actually barged into the room. He looked around, grimacing, and opened his wardrobe doors.
I stayed still, unsure whether he’d seen I was awake.
“Stupid foreign idiots,” he muttered under his breath. “Dunno why Dad had to say they could stay here. Bloody goody-two-shoes. Never thinks about us.”
I closed my eyes tight. I definitely didn’t want him to realize that I’d heard him.
He slammed the wardrobe doors shut and stomped out of the room, leaving the bedroom door wide open.
I wished Mama and Baba had heard him. They had no idea what he was like. They kept thanking him for giving up his room, which made me want to throw up.
I thought about what I was going to do that day. I needed to email Aadam and Joseph, but there was no point in asking Hassan again and his dad would be at work by now. I’d have to try Aunty Fatimah.
I got up off the mattress and stretched my arms, reminding me that I was wearing that vomit’s clothes. I got out of them and threw them on the pink duvet, noticing a neat pile of freshly folded clothes on Hassan’s tidy desk.
